Why He Comes Back Every Year

The blue sky sleeps beside me at night in a

puddle of blankets. The kettle howls on the stove like a

frantic child answering a question in History class. Daylight

escapes faster than fireflies in the summer. Hold on.


He is growing out his beard again and it reminds me of

unfinished poems. There is a frail peacefulness

in this Sunday afternoon- I hold it in my palms careful like

white holds the yolk; one puncture away from chaos.


We sit with hands clasped and thank god for feeding

all the world’s children. Through the window, I wonder

what it would feel like to see the sky fall for the

very first time. I am still the little girl

mimicking snow flakes for ways to navigate gravity.